


Scream (but not so loud)

by Peasantaries



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Horror, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire, Character Death, Derek Is So Done, Derek is Derek, Misunderstandings, Multi, Mutual Pining, Trust Issues, seriously, with murder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-17
Updated: 2017-05-21
Packaged: 2018-08-23 02:07:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8309623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Peasantaries/pseuds/Peasantaries
Summary: "Dude, it's a classic! Tell me you know your horror."
  "Oh, I know horror." Derek replies.
  "Yeah? What's your favourite scary movie?"
  He pauses with a half-popped kernel halfway to his mouth. "Well now that's just stealing lines."
A Scream! AU with all the horror cliches, but Derek is so done with murder.[WILL BE COMPLETED]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I was having a bit of a horror marathon and just had a thought - how cute would the first scene of _Scream _be if it ended a little bit differently? I mean, how meet-cute is dialling the wrong number?__
> 
> And this happened.
> 
> Prior knowledge of any of the movies is not needed, FYI. 
> 
> Shout out to Kathleen, who flies through these fics like nobody's business  
> 

Derek picks up the phone on the first ring.

“Hello?”

“Uh, who – who is this?” Someone says.

Derek frowns. “You called me, shouldn’t I be asking that?”

“Uh, I – I called Scott?” The voice rises in a question. “Who are you?”

“Wrong number.” Derek states, and hangs up.

It rings again.

“Hello?” Derek states, bland.

“What the fuck!” Someone cries. “Did Scott change his phone? Who are you?”

“Who are _you?”_ Derek retorts, but he stands up from his slouch and starts walking.

“I’m – you know what, sorry to bother, have a nice life.”

“Bye.” Derek says, and waits.

He frowns.

“You didn’t hang up!” The someone on the other end of the line shouts. “That was your cue!”

Derek feels himself grinning. “I was waiting for a goodbye.”

“Well, bye!” The person says sarcastically.

Derek bites the inside of his cheek.

“Okay, now I'm starting to think you actually want to be on the phone with me.” Their tone of voice shifts, turning playful and dark and _hello,_ before there's a sharp, indrawn breath.

“Wait, unless you genuinely do, and you kidnapped Scott and that's why you have his phone, and –”

“Chill.” Derek deadpans. “I’m babysitting, and waiting on popcorn. Plus, if this was a horror movie, I’m pretty sure you’d be the killer.”

“I – oh god, this is _Scream_ , isn’t it?”

Derek laughs.

“It totally is! I swear I'm not outside your house or anything.”

“You know that one pretty well.” Derek grins, pressing his phone onto his shoulder and lifting the popcorn from the microwave.

“Dude, it’s a classic! Tell me you know your horror.”

“Oh, I know horror.” Derek replies.

“Yeah? What’s your favourite scary movie?”

He pauses with a half-popped kernel halfway to his mouth. “Well now that’s just stealing lines.”

There’s a pause, then an audible thwack. “Dude, okay, not a creepy killer, it just came out–”

Derek laughs again, returning to the couch with his freshly filled bowl, and un-pauses the TV. “I won’t tell you my favourite, but I will say this _, Scream 4_ is clearly the best.”

“Wh!” There’s an inarticulate noise of rage. “Dude are you for real? Everyone knows the original is by far the most superior! All the rest are just knock offs!”

“Just voicing my opinions here.” Derek says simply, but he’s still grinning. The first one is obviously the best. He just wants to know whether it’s worth staying on the line or not.

“I’m disgusted. I’m disgraced. I’m – I’m _offended._ You know what, I’m gonna write a paragraph about this on Facebook.”

Derek outright laughs then, snorting popcorn up his nose.

“And I’m gonna tag like 20 people as well, so all my close friends and family will get a personal notification of my outrage –”

“Stop.” Derek gasps. “Oh my God, I was kidding, the first one is the best, don’t – please don’t do that.”

“Thank god.” The guy says, and it’s clearly a guy, from the deep, slow drawl, the way their pitch lowers. “I thought I was gonna have to hang up.”

Derek snickers. “Uh huh, okay crunch time, what’s your favourite?”

“Did you just say _crunch time?”_ The guy says in glee. “Are you actually a forty-year-old man?”

Derek feels his face heat up. “Shut up.”

“That has to be the cutest thing I’ve ever experienced.”

Derek rolls his eyes so hard, he should probably be concerned about brain damage. “I’m sure it was. How do you know I’m not a forty-year-old man anyway?”

There’s a pregnant pause. “Uh.”

“C’mon, I do not sound forty!” Derek shouts, upending his popcorn all over the carpet. “Shit.” He mutters, and bends to clean it up.

“I mean, dude, the voice coming out on my end is –”

“I’m eighteen!” Derek cries, irrationally hurt. He coughs, trying to quieten down for the twins upstairs.

“Not that I’m complaining.” The guy begins, an obvious smile in their voice. “In any way.”

Derek clears his throat. “Fine. What age are you?”

“Seventeen.” Comes the reply, way too fast.

“I’m not a cop.” Derek snorts.

“Okay I’m fifteen, but dude, I have the mental age of seventeen-year-old!”

“Yeah, and who told you that? The Internet?” Derek grins.

“Three separate doctors, actually.” The guy states.

Derek blinks. “Oh. Sorry.”

“It’s cool. Brain works too fast, no bigee.”

“Sounds…” Derek clears is throat. “Conductive to working out who the killer is.” He tries.

The guy laughs. “You have no clue how many movies I’ve ruined.”

Derek grins. “You work it out too quick?”

“Nah, I just don’t stop talking.”

Derek laughs again, a short, startled bark.

“I still don’t know what your favourite horror is.” The guy says, an obvious conversation opener.

Derek opens his mouth, grinning, and then pauses suddenly. He’s on the phone with a fifteen-year-old. That’s not even legal.

Well, of course it’s _legal,_ but some of the things that Derek is imagining sure aren’t.

Like what he looks like, if he’s as attractive as he is witty, is he has blue or green eyes.

And that sure as hell isn’t legal.

“The one where I get shot for flirting with underage kids.” Derek replies stonily.

“You – so this was flirting?” Their voice turns coy, soft and hopeful.

“Was.” Derek states. “Get some sleep.”

He hangs up this time.

 

*

The next day in school, Derek nearly chokes on his own spit.

“Everyone, this is your new classmate, Stiles Stilinski. He’s in the year below, but we’re told he’s quite the prodigy.” Mrs Hudson smiles warmly.

Curious eyes glance up to the boy currently ambling his way inside.

It’s like looking at the human embodiment of Bambi.

Wide, honey-hazel eyes blink owlishly around the classroom, coupled with a button nose and freckled cheeks.

He’s like something from a comic book.

Derek flits his eyes away, disinterested.

“Take a seat, Stiles.”

Derek doesn’t look as Stiles takes the closest available seat, which happens to be beside him.

There’s murmured noise, whispers as everyone glances to one another.

“Hey, kid, don’t sit there.” Someone nudges Stiles.

Stiles jumps up before his butt even touches the seat. “Oh, I’m sorry, is it taken?”

Derek tries not to swallow his own tongue, whipping his head around harshly.

It’s _him._ It’s the guy. It’s Stiles.

Stiles holds up his hands, pleading innocence. “No harm, no foul.” He tries, complete with a shaky laugh.

Derek clears his throat and swallow hard, nods, and turns around.

Stiles retreats quickly, taking up the space behind him.

“Hey.” He taps Derek’s back, leaning close, breath brushing his ear. “You don’t have a pen, do you?”

Derek clenches his jaw, shifting around in his seat and fixing Stiles with a stare.

“Thank you so much, you – oh.” Stiles blinks as he realises Derek isn’t giving him a pen. Derek isn’t giving him anything.

Derek cocks an eyebrow, and Stiles shrinks back.

“Jeesh.” He hears Stiles blow out a breath.

Derek smirks, but then Stiles is talking again.

“What do they call you, serial killer?” He mutters darkly.

Derek turns minutely, just twisting his torso. He tilts his head, mouth curled upwards. “I like horrors.” He states.

Stiles’ mouth falls open.

Derek turns back as the class begins.

 

*

Of course, that’s when it happens.

_Last night two bodies were discovered, belonging to Lydia Martin and her boyfriend, Jackson Whittemore, at her parents’ house in Beacon Hills. No suspects have been reported, but the case is officially being called a homicide._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I wanted to complete this fic before Halloween but then uni assignments hit me in the face.
> 
> So, please accept my feeble apologies, and enjoy this Halloween treat

Predictably, Derek still answers the phone on the first ring.

“Scott, oh my God, you’ll never guess –”

“Wrong.” Derek states.

“Jesus _shit!”_ There’s the audible sound of someone dropping their phone. Namely: Stiles.

“Why do you keep calling me?” Derek asks.

“Why are you always on the other line?” Stiles squawks, voice rising.

“Maybe I wouldn’t be if you managed to call the right person.” Derek suggests.

“Oh my – you know what, Scott moved, he has this whole new number thing –”

“Scott McCall?” Derek asks.

“Yeah!” Stiles shouts.

“He lives like, right beside me. Maybe that’s the problem. He also lives right beside Mrs Benson, who I babysit for. Seems you drew the short straw in getting me twice in a row.” Derek presses his phone to his ear again, walking around to the kitchen.

There’s a huff. “I wouldn’t call it the short straw, dude.”

Derek swallows, and clenches his jaw. He opens the fridge door, bringing out a water bottle. “Just make sure you get the last letter of the number right.” He states. “Or better yet, use your cell phone.”

Derek hangs up.

He’s halfway to the living room, water bottle tipped upwards toward his mouth, when the phone in his hand rings again.

Nobody uses their house phone anymore. There’s only one person this could be.

“Stiles, I told you, stop calling this number.”

There’s silence.

Derek sighs. “Look, it’s nothing against you, okay? We’re just.” He cuts off, frustrated.

Derek can only hear breathing down the end of the line, raspy and thick.

“We’re different.” He finishes.

“I’m not Stiles.” Someone says.

Derek stops dead.

A lot of people react differently to fear.

Another person might have jumped, jerked in shock, dropped the phone. Someone else might have shouted, been startled. Somebody might be frightened, confused, their heart pounding, their grip tight.

Not Derek.

Derek simply stops dead, his heart still, pulse even. “What.” He states, not a question.

“This isn’t Stiles.” The person says, and something about their voice is off: robotic, inhuman.

“Then who is this?” He asks, still calm.

“You know, they always ask that.” The man says, because the voice is deep, but it still has that strange mechanicalness. “Lydia Martin, especially, seemed to be one for questions.”

Derek feels nausea churn inside his stomach, feels his hands begin to sweat. “Lydia Martin is dead.”

“I know. She asked questions right up until I gutted her insides.”

Derek feels his heart jolt, finally beginning to pound. He’s alone in the house, his parents at work and his sisters are out.

“That’s nice. Bye.” Derek states, and quickly presses end.

His breathing is still irregular, and he stands there for a minute before rushing to the window, closing the blinds with clumsy fingers. Derek peers outside, but the road is dark.

Empty and dark.

It’s just a prank. A stupid, Halloween prank. Derek takes a calming breath.

The phone rings again.

“That was cute.” The man says, mocking.

Derek doesn't say anything.

“C’mon Derek!” The voice laughs. “I thought we had a rapport going on there, or was that just me?”

“You’re sick.” Derek spits. “Lydia was a _nice_ person. This shit isn’t funny.”

“Oh, but it’s a little funny.” The man says, voice lowering. “Just like it’s going to be funny when I slice your eyelids open so you don’t blink when I stab you in the face.”

Derek backs up against the wall, glancing around wildly. It’s a prank. There will be cameras somewhere. Everyone will come out laughing.

“It’s not a joke, Derek.” The man states. “Nobody is coming. You’re all alone in that house.”

Derek feel as if he could throw up. “My parents are coming back soon.” He’s proud of the steadiness in his voice.

“But they’re not here now. And I am.”

Derek hangs up, dropping the phone in his slippery grip. He rushes upstairs, almost tripping in his haste. Derek runs to the bathroom, scrambling to lock the door.

He slides down the edge of the bathtub, wrapping arms around his legs, breathing fast.

Derek can hear the phone ringing, echoing out in the hallway. He puts hands over his ears, squeezing his eyes shut, _it’s all a prank, it's all just a stupid joke, it’s all–_

He startles when he hears someone banging on the door, trying the handle furiously.

His stomach twists, palms wet with sweat and shaking violently. Derek grapples to stand, looking for something, anything he can use.

“Derek?” His mom calls. “Are you in there?”

Derek rushes and rips the door open, falling into his mom’s arms.

“Oh!” She huffs, the breath knocked out of her. “We wondered what was going on. Why is the phone on the floor?”

He’s shaking, he registers distantly, and his mom notices, putting an arm around him.

“Derek, what’s wrong?” She pulls back.

He opens his mouth, formulating the words, but finds he can’t say them. It’s too absurd, too terrifying. He can’t say it.

“Nothing.” Derek says shakily, heart rate receding. “Someone was throwing stuff at the window. Just stupid Halloween pranks.”

“Oh right.” She laughs. “That happened last year, didn’t it?”

Derek smiles, but it’s weak. “Yeah. It was just a bit scarier, for some reason, because you were out.”

Talia cups his cheek. “Well, they're gone now.”

Derek closes his eyes, bending to press his face into his mom’s shoulder.

 

*

He’s convinced himself it was a joke. Halloween night; notorious for pranks. People pulling scares, doing stupid shit.

Yeah, TP-ing someone’s house, not calling anonymously and threatening _murder,_ but Derek’s chalked it up to some weird sicko with serious problems that got a hold of his number.

Until he walks into school the next day.

Everyone is crowded in the cafeteria area, hundreds of students gathered around. Derek can barely make it past them all, murmuring among themselves.

Yet, as soon as people catch sight of him, even a glimpse of his face, suddenly the crowd is parting like the Red Sea. Derek frowns, until he sees it from the corner of his vision.

Across the walls, written in dripping paint the colour of blood, are the words _DEREK HALE DID IT_


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the shortest update in the history of updates, but I thought this would probably be better than waiting for a longer one for another six months.
> 
> Six months? Has it really been six months since I've updated this? *sniffles tears* I'm so sorry, I know I'm a terrible writer who decides to post new work because they're feeling inspired and think they can finish it, until all the motivation leaves in a rush and it's a year until a new chapter.
> 
> I'm posting this short update so that I can maybe post another short one very soon, but a promise from me means nothing

The next day, he's avoided at all costs.

Derek tries not to let the glances affect him; the murmurs and the side-eyes as he passes by. It's harder than he would like to admit.

"This is nothing." Danny is saying. "Remember when I had braces and spat food all over the principal that one time? It took _weeks,_ but everyone eventually just forgot about it."

Derek huffs, trying and probably failing to grin up at his friend. "I think that's a little different to being accused of murder."

"Says who?" Isaac is quick to jump in. "Nobody's saying you murdered anyone, Derek."

"Exactly, it could be anything." Danny adds. "You could have just done a shit in the toilets."

Derek snorts, rolling his eyes, but then a shadow falls over the ground and blocks out the courtyard sun.

He glances up.

Stiles is standing, arms crossed and looking awkward, with two people behind him.

"Hey." Stiles starts.

Derek shields his eyes with a hand. "Hey." He replies.

"Uh.” Stiles coughs, scuffing his shoes. “Just wanted to say – don’t let those jerks get to you.” He purses his mouth, glancing off into the distance and avoiding Derek’s eyes.

For some reason, those small words of reassurance make Derek’s cheeks heat, more than anything his friends have been saying all morning.

“What jerks?” Derek blinks up at him.

Stiles frowns. “The – the ones –”

Derek smiles, and Stiles suddenly gets it, because he stops short and smiles back.

“Uh, who are you?” Isaac asks. “And why are you talking to Derek without getting your throat ripped out?”

Derek flushes, shooting a glare at Isaac.

Danny holds up his hands. “It’s true, man. No wonder half our school think you’re the murderer.”

Derek opens his mouth, but Stiles cuts him to it.

“I’m nobody.” Stiles replies, and Derek feels his forehead furrow, until he’s continuing, “I called the wrong number and had the misfortunate of getting Derek.”

Danny snorts, and Derek turns his glare to Stiles. Stiles makes an innocent face, mouth downturned. It’s cuter than Derek would like to admit.

“Stiles.” Someone behind Stiles murmurs, and Stiles jerks, as if just remembering he brought two people in tow.

“Oh right, this is Scott, and this is Allison.”

Scott shuffles on his feet, a crooked smile on his face as he nods to the others.

Isaac tilts his head, posture unfolding, and Derek tries to give him a warning look before Allison is stepping forward, arm raising in a wave as her other hand slips into Scott’s.

“Hi.” She offers, beaming bright.

Isaac nods, glancing away.

“So, are you guys going to the party tonight?” Danny asks, just to break the sudden tension.

Stiles frowns. “Party?” He asks.

“Yeah, Erica Reyes?” Danny starts. “She’s having this huge thing cause her parents are away.”

“I think I heard about something about it.” Stiles scratches his neck, colour crawling its way up his throat. It’s clear he had no idea about it.

Derek wasn’t even planning on going tonight, already thinking about the snacks in the fridge and the films on his laptop, but he finds his mouth moving.

“Come with us.”

His friends look as shocked by the invitation as Derek feels, but Stiles blinks before a wide beam is splitting his face.

“Yeah, sure.” He nods, glancing back to Scott and Allison, who nod as well.

“Cool.” Derek says, and immediately wants to die. Cool.

He just said _cool_.

Stiles is still grinning, and then he salutes with a wave and a _‘see you tonight!’_ , before he’s off.

As soon as he’s out of sight, Derek is being pummelled by Isaac and Danny.

 _“Ohhh_ , tonight!” Isaac squeals, while Danny repeatedly slaps his back.

“Whatever, I was just being nice.” He huffs, but even he knows his cheeks are red.

“Derek, you are never nice, which is why it’s so blatantly obvious that when you _are,_ you like someone.” Danny informs him.

Derek flushes harder, his face molten lava by this point, and just shrugs them off. It's not as if he can disagree.

 

*

Standing in front of the mirror that night, however, is a different story all together.

Derek smooths down his shirt, a slight shake to his fingers, and tries to steady them by holding his palm spread-out in front of his face. It doesn’t work.

What is this? A _crush?_ Has it ever felt like this before? This nauseating and nerve-wracking?

Derek has only ever dated once, back in freshman year, and it was such a total and complete disaster that he never wanted to repeat the performance again.

Her name was Kate Argent, supposedly the same age as him. Only, as it turned out, she was nearly a decade older, dating a minor, and when everyone found out, she was basically kicked out of town, with his parents threatening to go to the police.

Derek still shudders at the thought of her hands on him, so innocent back then, but now sinister and wrong. They never did anything, but she was always pushing him, insisting they meet up somewhere private and alone, in dark corners where nobody would find them.

Derek felt mature, having a secret relationship, but now he can only wonder at his own stupidity. Surely there must have been signs, some inkling that something wasn’t right?

If there was, he was too blind to notice them.

As soon as the word spread, Derek was a social outcast. Danny and Isaac have always stuck close to his side, but other than them, he was dropped by everyone he had ever spoken to. He’s only started talking to Erica and Boyd this year, but other than those four, Derek remains the reject of the school.

Most of the time, he’s closed off and curt, making it impossible for anyone to get close to him even if they wanted to or not. He’s earned the nickname of 'axe murderer' from both his dark scowl and darker demeanour, but it’s easier that way, rather than actively try for acceptance and get shut down.

Of course, until he met Stiles.

Derek blows out a breath, shaky and uneven. He’s been pretending for so long, he doesn’t know how not to. He doesn’t know how to drop this surly act and play – well, _Derek_. Is there a way to play-pretend himself?

Derek swallows, clenches his jaw, squares his shoulders and heads out.

Then he pops back inside and grabs his leather jacker, hung over his chair.

It’s still cold outside.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning - character death, depictions of violence and gore.

The music is a thumping, pounding thing as soon as Derek steps inside. He shuffles his way past drunken strangers awkwardly, feeling distinctly out of place in his bulky jacket and his unpopularity.

But then he hears the shout of, _“Derek!”,_ and turns.

Isaac is gesturing him over wildly, already talking with Erica and Boyd, but Derek just nods and heads for the kitchen.

If he’s supposed to get through this night, he sincerely needs to get drunk.

Stiles isn’t here yet.

Derek only knows this because he’s scanned the whole room twice. He’s starting to feel dejected, his shoulders slowly rising up to his ears as they stiffen the longer Stiles doesn’t appear, and he’s just stepped out outside for some air, inhaling a great gust of wind, when there’s a voice at his side.

“Oops, better watch out.”

Derek jerks and whips his head around to find Stiles, grinning wide, cast in darkness from the night and leaning against the door Derek has just closed.

“Don’t want to be out here with the axe murderer.” He carries on, eyes glinting. “Anything might happen.”

“Funny.” Derek deadpans, and Stiles laughs, unfolding from his positon and stepping closer.

“I’m serious.” Stiles holds his – admittedly _large_ – hands up, a feint of surrender. “Don’t hurt me.”

Derek huffs, turning away, a tension to the line of his jaw.

But then Stiles is jostling his shoulder, standing so close Derek can feel his body heat radiating across to him, a warmth in the night air.

“Kidding.” He snickers.

Derek nods, a flush crawling up his face the longer Stiles stands beside him. He prays that Stiles can’t see.

Until Stiles turns, arms crossed, and asks casually, “wanna go on a date?”

Derek splutters, whipping around, his face probably _glowing_ , but Stiles is staring straight ahead, purposefully not looking at him.

 _“What?”_ He squeaks.

Stiles shrugs, a jerk of one shoulder. “Just – wanna go on a date? With me?”

Derek’s heart is pounding, hammering into his ribcage and beating itself to a pulp. “I – Stiles, you’re _three_ years younger than me.”

Stiles purses his mouth. “So?”

“So?” He chokes. “You’re – a _minor,_ Stiles –”

Stiles scoffs. “That’s ridiculous, Derek.” He starts. “Does that mean everyone dating at fifteen is doing something illegal?”

Derek’s mouth works for a moment. “I – no, but –”

“Exactly, Derek, it’s not a decade.” He states, but it’s the wrong thing to say.

Derek flinches, looks down at the ground, and Stiles’ eyes widen.

There’s a beat of silence.

“I guess you know, then.” Derek states tonelessly.

Stiles swallows, silent.

“It wasn’t a decade.” He continues. “For the record. Near enough, though. And I’m not doing it again.”

“Wh – Derek, you haven’t lied to me about your age, you haven’t _done_ anything, plus we go to the same school, this is _ridiculous_ –” Stiles is rambling.

“What are people gonna think, Stiles?” Derek turns to him.

“I don’t care what people think!” Stiles throws his hands up. “And I _know_ you don’t care either.” He points a finger.

“I do care.” Derek tells him, softly, and clears his throat. “I do.” He repeats. “I just try not to show it.”

There’s silence. Derek glances up to find Stiles’ eyes on him, wide and clear.

“That’s probably the most honest thing anyone has ever said.” Stiles states. “And I think I like you even more now.”

Derek blushes, averts his gaze. “Stiles –”

“Derek, just listen.” Stiles rushes. “I just – I _really, really_  like you, and I really want to know more about you, and if you want to wait until I’m eighteen then you should know I’m gonna be asking you out every day for the next three years –”

Derek tries not to laugh, he does, but it’s happening anyway, and his mouth is stretching as he turns away to hide it, to bury it into his jacket.

“With flowers at your desk, serenading you at school every day –”

Derek shakes his head, his cheeks pink and flushed.

“You should know I’m _nothing_ if not persistent.” Stiles is grinning too, standing a little closer than before.

 _“Cocky_ , more like.” Derek tells him drily, and then coughs. “Although you hardly needed the confidence.” He says, embarrassed.

Stiles tilts his head in confusion, until Derek continues with, “you already – knew I liked you.” He admits gruffly.

Stiles is close now, _very close,_ and Derek notes that his cheeks are pink too, eyes bright and wonderfully incandescent. “Yeah?”

Derek nods, a sharp jerk of the head, and swallows around the heartbeat in his throat. “Didn’t you?” He peers up at Stiles.

Stiles shakes his head. “Not until just now.” He states. “I thought for _sure_ you would say no, and I would have to do the whole serenading you –”

Derek chuckles, shaking his head.

“I had the song all planned, it was gonna be something out of _10 Things I Hate About You.”_ Stiles tells him.

Derek raises an eyebrow. “Another classic?” He asks.

Stiles beams wide, all his teeth appearing. “We _totally_ need to have a movie date.”

Derek nods, only this time, he’s a little breathless with the way Stiles seems to be getting closer, his face inching nearer and nearer to Derek’s, hot breath blowing over Derek’s face, mouth tantalisingly close.

Derek feels the words die on his tongue as Stiles leans in, their noses just brushing, touching one another’s and rubbing playfully until Derek tilts his head up, his heart doing _somersaults,_ pounding harder than it ever has in his life –

Until there’s a scream: a shrieking, _ear-splitting_ sound, and Stiles and Derek jump apart and whip around.

There’s nothing more, and Derek rushes forward, Stiles quick on his heels, around to the front yard.

“What the _fuck!”_ Erica screeches, holding her side, white-faced. Her t-shirt is strained dark red, smeared across her hand. “Someone just stabbed me!”

Stiles and Derek are frozen, wide-eyed.

“I’ve just been stabbed!” She cries, and then her legs are wobbling as she collapses, but then Derek is there, gentling her down.

“It’s alright Erica, you’re gonna be alright.” Derek babbles nonsensically, and Erica chokes back a sob.

“Idiot, I know.” She says. “I need to go to the hospital.”

“Stiles, can you call an ambulance?” Derek turns to look up, and Stiles brings his phone put shakily from his pocket.

“There’s – there’s no reception.” His voice trembles, face ashen. “I’m – I’m gonna go inside, I’ll tell everyone –” suddenly he’s rushing away, practically sprinting back to the house.

Derek turns back to Erica. She’s not a good colour, _really_ not a good colour, and her hands are weak and feeble where they’re clutching her stomach.

Derek tightens his grip. “You’re gonna be okay, Erica.” He whispers into her hair. "You're gonna be fine."

Erica shakes her head. “They just – came out of nowhere –”

“Did you see their face?” Derek asks.

Erica shakes her head. “They were – wearing some kind of mask, and a cloak, I couldn’t –”

Derek feels the blood drain from his body at the description.

 _Lydia Martin, especially, seemed to be one for questions._ _She asked questions right up until I gutted her insides._

It can’t be, it’s not possible.

It can’t be the person on the phone. That was a prank, that was some sick, twisted joke.

This is real life. This isn’t some horror movie. These are real people, not characters, who have families and friends and _lives._

Derek feels his jaw clenching, feels resolve settle deep into his stomach.

“Erica, I’m going to go look.” He says. “They can’t have gone far, and Stiles will be back in a minute –”

“Derek, don’t leave.” Erica says, her eyes wide and shining up at him.

“They’ll get away.” Derek says, stroking her face. “There’s not much time, if we wait they’ll be gone.”

Erica is silent, and then she nods. Derek can see her telling herself to be strong. “Okay.”

Derek hesitates. “I’ll get Stiles and bring him here, okay, he’ll wait with you until the ambulance come.”

“Just catch the motherfucker.” Erica states, and Derek huffs a laugh before standing up and following in the direction of the trees.

It’s too dark to see anything. He tries, pushing past branches and leaves, but it’s useless. The moon isn’t even bright enough to illuminate some of the way.

Derek growls, kicks the stump of a tree, and gives up.

 _Fuck,_ they got away. They just got away.

And they’ll do it again. Derek knows it. This is the second time.

He’s making his way back when he sees the flashing of lights, and feels himself relax, only the police are surrounding a body, and as Derek gets closer, he sees it’s Erica.

“I – I have to get to my friend.” He tries pushing past an officer, until he hears them say into their walkie-talkie, _‘multiple stab wounds and lacerations –’_

“What, no.” Derek starts. “No, she only –”

Until he catches sight of the scene on the ground.

Erica is lying, lifeless, her stomach ripped open.

Derek feels this strange, white ringing in his ears begin, and doesn’t feel the policeman taking him away, doesn’t feel their hands, until he’s abruptly bending over and throwing up.

He hasn't eaten much today, but he still pukes up everything inside of him. It comes in waves, the retching, and the policeman strokes his back until he manages to stop.

“I – where is Stiles?” He asks, wiping a trembling hand over his mouth, but the officer frowns.

“Stiles, he was supposed to come back, where is he –” a sick, tight nausea takes hold of him, stronger than the last; a horrible, terrible fear, because Stiles must have come back, and what if he – what the attacker caught him –

Derek stumbles into the house blindly, but there’s nobody there. Everyone is gone.

He rushes into the rooms, throwing the doors open, and then he sees the basement is slightly ajar.

Scott and Isaac are hiding, clutching at one another and cowering on the stairs.

“Derek!” Isaac cries, relief spreading across his entire face. “Oh God, Derek, there’s someone in the house, they’re trying to kill us, they're actually –”

“The police are here.” Derek states, a calmness in his voice he doesn’t feel. “We need to find Stiles.”

Just then, as if by a miracle, Stiles is there.

He appears at the door out leading to the backyard, only as he puts both hands on the window, they’re covered in blood.

“Derek! Scott!” Stiles cries. “Let me in!”

Scott and Isaac don’t move.

Stiles bashes his blood-stained hands against the glass, face wild with tear-tracks and stark, unadulterated _fear._ "Let me in!” He cries. “Let me in, please! I swear this isn't what it looks like!"

Scott grasps hands into his hair, tears streaming down his face. "I can't!" He screams. "Stiles, I can't!" 

Stiles sobs against the glass. "It's not what it looks like, please, Scotty, you have to believe me."

Derek is stepping forward, bypassing Scott and Isaac, unlocking the door with a neat snick, and hauling Stiles forward with a hand gripping into his shirt.

"Get the fuck inside, Stiles." He states, suddenly and utterly done with everything.

Stiles grasps onto Derek’s leather jacket, scrambling for purchase. "Please, you have to believe –”

"Do you think this is a fucking horror movies?" Derek asks, bewildered. "You turn around with the knife _bullshit?_ It's been you all along?" He shoves Stiles off, who falls in an ungainly heap of limbs on the floor.

"Jesus Christ, we're being chased by a fucking madman, not 150 pounds of skin and bone." Derek pushes past Scott and Isaac roughly on the way out. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am truly sorry, I don't enjoy killing characters, but sometimes it has to be done


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *takes a breath* *blows it out* I have no excuse for how bad I am at updating. I know waiting a month cannot be fun, and I'm sorry. I can only promise to try harder

Stiles and Derek sit at the police station, silent, heads bowed.

Stiles had washed his hands as soon as they got here, but he’s still staring down at them, elbows on his knees and a vacant expression on his face. 

Derek is staring ahead without really seeing anything at all. 

“It was my fault.” Stiles says eventually.

“It wasn’t your fault.” Derek states, monotone. “I was the one –”

“Hey.” Stiles turns, holding a hand up, expression hard. “If this wasn’t my fault, then it sure as hell wasn’t _yours_ –”

“I should have stayed with her –”

 _“I_ should have stayed –”

“But I was the one –”

“No, Derek, _I_ left –”

Derek sighs, suddenly exhausted, and stops. “We could do this forever.” He murmurs.

Stiles scrubs a hand over his face before folding over his splayed knees, head hanging low and arms resting on his thighs. “You're right.” He says, voice rough.

The Sheriff appears then, standing over them with his arms crossed, and Derek straightens up instantly.

“Boys.” He says, gruff, and Derek nods his head, but Stiles only sighs.

“Hey, dad.” He exhales.

Derek blinks, freezing, and looks over to Stiles with wide eyes.

Stiles doesn’t look at him, just lifts his head and gives the Sheriff a tired imitation of a smile. 

“What on earth were you doing with your hands covered in Erica Reyes blood?” The Sheriff sighs, as tired as his son.

Stiles lifts an eyebrow. “You want my statement now, or?”

“No jokes.” Sheriff Stilinski states, and Stiles glances down.

“I almost had the guy.” Stiles starts, barely audible. “They were – they were _attacking_ her, when I came back. They had on some kind of mask, like.” Stiles pauses to swallow. “Like it was a horror movie, like it was a _game_. I couldn’t get it off, but then they escaped. So I tried to stop the bleeding, but I knew it was too late. I knew she was.” Stiles shakes his head then, as if remembering.

It’s a moment before he speaks again. “I ran after them. But they were gone.”

Sheriff Stilinski gives Stiles a long, hard look. Then he says, “right, I think you should head home. I'll take care of this.”

Stiles looks up, and blinks. “What about Derek?” He asks.

“He still needs to be questioned.” The Sheriff says.

“Derek was with me.” Stiles says.

Sheriff Stilinski blows out a breath. “Stiles, it’s procedure –”

“Uh, no, Derek’s gone through just as much _shit_ as me tonight.” Stiles insists, voice hardening. “If he’s not leaving, I’m not leaving.”

Derek feels his cheeks heat at that, and the Sheriff gives him a once-over, but Stiles stands his ground, jaw clenched and muscles tense. 

“Alright.” The Sheriff shrugs. “You can both sit here. But I need to take everyone’s statement.”

“Including mine, right?” Stiles asks, eyebrows raised.

The Sheriff grits his teeth, but otherwise doesn’t say anything, and then he turns back to the interview room.

There’s a beat.

“Thank you.” Derek says, voice barely audible.

Stiles swallows and nods. “Meh.” He shrugs, as if it was nothing. “Figured it was only fair. I mean, you’re the only one that seemed to believe me back at the house.” He shrugs. “I should probably repay the favour.”

Stiles’ voice is deceptively casual, but his knee is bouncing, fingers twitching and jittery where they’re strumming on his thigh.

Derek reaches out slowly and covers Stiles’ hand with his, sliding his palm over the smooth skin and squeezing Stiles’ fingers, making them still.

Stiles stiffens instantly at that, going rigid, but after a second he squeezes back, turning his hand up to lace their fingers together.

 

*

Derek doesn’t mention the phone call.

There’s no easy way to include it into his statement, along with everything else that happened, along with the total _shitstorm_ that was tonight, and he doesn’t want to seem – _childish_ ,  immature.

He doesn’t want to suddenly blurt out that he got a scary phone call one night on Halloween so this must be all about him, and then have the police offers look at him in indignation and contempt. He doesn’t want to hear them say that they get complaints like his every day of the week, but if they could focus on the _murder_ at hand please.

So, Derek doesn’t mention it.

He can’t seem to shake it though. It’s as if it’s wriggled inside his brain and he can’t seem to forget it, no matter how far he pushes it to the back of his mind.

If Derek wasn’t a social outcast already, he is by now.

People whisper as he passes, but they don’t try to hide it anymore.

Why should they, he’s been accused publicly of murder and then been one of the only witnesses at the scene of a crime. Derek _himself_ would even begin to suspect.

He’s left alone; people avoid him, walk around him as if he’s an island inside a vast sea.

But it’s more than that though. All of these things, Derek doesn’t mind, it doesn’t even surprise him. But there’s something else bothering him, an itching sensation at the base of his skull, the skin at the nape of his neck.

 _Feel as if you’re being watched,_ Derek types into google one night, but it’s totally pointless. All it reveals is a stalkers tendencies and habits, and how to look out for them.

Derek knows he isn’t being stalked. But this constant – _fear,_ that somebody is watching, that somebody is _there_ , is growing too acute to ignore.

He’s lying in bed after having given up on trying to sleep, scrolling through his phone in the dark, when suddenly it lights up, vibrating in his hand gently with an oncoming call.

Derek squints, forehead scrunching up in confusion.

“Stiles?” His voice is thick and raspy.

“Hey there.” Stiles replies, a low whisper, as if he’s trying to keep quiet.

Derek sits up. “Wh – how did you get my number?” He pulls back to look at the screen. “And why do I have yours saved?”

“Pssh, please, I put it in at the station, I’m not an amateur.” Stiles replies. “Plus, this saves the whole house phone debacle.”

Derek snorts, but softly, mindful of his family in the adjoining rooms. “I guess it does.” He says.

“Can’t sleep, I’m guessing?” Stiles asks, lowering his voice.

Derek is quiet for a moment. “Yeah.” He says, swallowing.

“Man, we’re really fucked for life now, huh?” Stiles chuckles, but it’s humourless. “I mean, that’s like – top ten most traumatic things to see, someone being killed, right?”

Derek runs a hand through his hair, blowing out a breath. “Glad it’s not just me.” He exhales.

Stiles laughs a shaky laugh. “My – my dad offered me like, counselling sessions and shit, but it’s – it’s not as if you can _explain,_ to someone who hasn’t seen –”

“Yeah, I know.” Derek replies instantly, because he does. “I know.”

There’s no reply, but Derek can hear Stiles scrubbing at his face, his breaths harsh down the line. “I dunno, I just – there’s nobody to talk to and I really, you know what, I just really needed to talk to you.” Stiles blurts in a rush.

He’s quiet.

“Stiles.” Derek says, his mouth moving almost involuntarily.

“Yeah?”

“I got a phone call.” He says. The words come easily, as easy as breathing. “I got a phone call from someone I don’t know. They – they told me they wanted to hurt me.”

There’s silence.

_“WHY THE FUCK DIDN’T YOU TELL THE POLICE!”_

“I – ow, Stiles –” Derek pulls his phone away from his ear. “Jesus, keep it down!” He hisses.

There’s a sharp, harsh breath. “Derek Hale.” Stiles states. “You better tell me right now why you didn’t say anything, or I’m gonna come over there and beat your ass.”

“Wh – how do you even know where I _live?”_ Derek gesticulates, waving a hand in the air.

“I have my sources.” Stiles informs him, but unlike Derek’s mystery caller, he can actually hear the sarcasm in Stiles’ voice, the way those words are meant to be witty, the way they’re so _wholly untrue_.

Derek can actually _tell_ the difference between when someone is being serious and when they aren’t, and it’s why he knows he isn’t being childish.

It’s why he’s _scared._

“Don’t come here.” Derek says. “Alright, and I’ll tell you why.”

Stiles waits.

“It’s – it was Halloween, I figured it was just some prank. Then they – they started talking about Lydia, and how they were outside, so I freaked out and ran upstairs until my parents came home.” Derek swallows, clenching his jaw. “And then that note on the walls at the canteen, and now Erica, and I think – I think they’re trying to get to me.” He breathes for a second. “I think they’re trying to make it look like I’m hurting people, Stiles.” Derek says quietly. “That I’m – I’m killing people.”

There’s silence. And then, “Right, first things first, we tell the police everything, because contrary to popular belief and really shitty horror movies, they are actually _good at their job_ Derek, and they’re there for this _exact reason._ Then we make a list of the people that might not like you.” Stiles states. “From someone you bumped into at the grocery store to that lifelong family feud with your cousin, _everyone.”_

This time, when Derek breathes, he finds he can do it a little bit better than before. “Okay.” He replies. “Okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comment and all that jazz, if ya want
> 
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> 
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